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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25941475">i can't be your midnight love</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbenzedrine/pseuds/missbenzedrine'>missbenzedrine</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Alternate Universe - Photographer, God I love slutty Richie, M/M, Pining, Richie Tozier is a Little Shit, Sex Fiend Richie, Slut Richie, bashful photographer!eddie, idk I've been thinking of this idea for a while, muse richie, photographer/model, reddie au</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 01:33:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,045</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25941475</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbenzedrine/pseuds/missbenzedrine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's rumored that Edward Kaspbrak is one of the fastest rising young photographers of the twenty-first century. The thing that he really needs to push him over that edge is <i>the shoot</i>. You know, that make or break photo shoot that would catapult him to the top. </p><p>Enter Richie Tozier. Young. Hot. Cheekbones that could kill. A model with a penchant for sleeping with his photographers and an entitlement complex like no other. </p><p>This could be Eddie's one chance.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddie Kaspbrak &amp; Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>69</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. i don't bite. unless you ask nicely.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>is the it fandom dead? i hope not. after all, i'm still stuck in quarantine. </p><p>how are you guys doing? </p><p>this is an idea i've had floating around in the noggin, and i needed to get it out on "paper". basically, this is just going to be shameless muse/artist angst/fluff. i'm a slut for slutty richie. sue me. </p><p>definitely going to be NSFW soon and often, so stay tuned ;) </p><p>title from midnight love by girl in red &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When you’re a photographer, it can be easy to lose sight of reality. The world, in all of its aesthetic wonders, becomes your metaphorical (and, if we’re talking in terms of aphrodisiacs, <em>literal</em>) oyster. This is because, we, as photographers, see things the way that we would photograph them. We see a truck, covered in grime, coming off the interstate, as a symbol of transience, of momentum and experience, or a dog laying, half in the sun, half out, as a specter of grace, a statement on freedom within imprisonment. Or…in the curve of a spine, bare, pale skin glinting in the morning light, sheets twisted around a slim waist. Well, there…I suppose a photographer may see any number of deep, speculative ideas.</p><p>But the thing about photographs is that they capture a moment in time, that otherwise would be lost forever. And most moments are lost. Most moments disappear with the ticking of a clock as easily as your lungs fill with breath and your heart takes its next beat. So there’s a power, wielded by a photographer. The power to freeze time, to <em>beat</em>the ticking of the clock, and hold onto something that otherwise would be lost forever.</p><p>So you see why we have egos, then? Why holding a camera might make one feel… unstoppable? To lose sight of what’s real? Because if <em>you </em>could freeze time, tell reality to fuck off and live in <em>that </em>moment (you know the one)…well, wouldn’t you?</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>The rain pattered down, consistently on the windshield. <em>plat, plat, plat… </em>Followed by the rhythmic squawk of the wipers, coming across them in a futile attempt to clear the view. “Oh for fuck’s sake.” My breath fogged up on the glass in front of me. God. <em>Why </em>did I have to get a car? It’s <em>New York </em>for Christ’s sake. No one has a car in New York.</p><p>A taxi skidded by, sloshing a fresh spray of muddy city water onto my left window and I graciously extended a middle finger to the woman behind the wheel. Ah, right. That was the alternative. Lugging all of my absurdly expensive equipment into a germ-infested taxi cab, just hoping that I didn’t catch ring worm or something worse before reaching my destination. I let my fingers glide over the dashboard. “I’m sorry for doubting you, old girl,” I told the old Ford.</p><p> Finally, I spotted the old rusty sign (<em>Bob’s Rentals: See it, Want it, Rent it! Office and Storage *minimum 1-yr lease, inquire inside) </em>swinging on loose hinges in the rain that meant I was in the right place. Upon haphazardly swinging myself into a space at the back of the lot, I happened to notice someone standing at the back of the building, under the little lime-green awning. A lean, lank of a man, dark hair accentuated by the paleness of his skin. He held a cigarette to his lips with long, skinny fingers I would be willing to bet today’s paycheck, had never done an ounce of work in their little lives. Of course, I knew this was Richard Tozier. Anyone who even so much as dabbled in the world of photography (where it intersected with that hallowed ground of modeling) would know that was Richard Tozier.</p><p>With a deep breath, I closed my eyes and prayed to a god I hadn’t believed in since I was twelve. <em>Please dear god, don’t let this guy be as much of an asshole as everyone says. I need this to go well. I swear, I will never drink again. Or…well, you know. Not tonight. Or, actually, I’ll probably need to drink tonight. Tomorrow! I promise. I won’t drink tomorrow…amen. </em></p><p>The engine went dead with the turn of the key, and I was left with nothing to do but grab my shit from the passenger’s seat and head into the rain. “Well, here goes nothing. Don’t worry about it, Eddie. It’s just your entire career on the line. No big deal,” I muttered under my breath, getting thoroughly soaked as I walked up to the sweatpants-clad 25-year-old, who appeared to be bone dry. His dark eyes glinted at me from behind his glasses, and I could feel them raking over my, now fully soaked, clothes, as smoke wisped out the side of his lips.</p><p>“I…I thought I told your manager you shouldn’t be here until eleven,” I said, half-breathless from the quick-footed walk through the rain.</p><p>Richie pulled his phone out of his pocket, glancing at the screen, before looking back at me. “Half an hour? You gave yourself half an hour to get ready for a shoot with…well, with <em>me</em>?” His smirk matched the one I’d seen in spreads across magazines, in photo study books. The guy had made quite an impression on the world of human photography since he’d gotten into the business. It was true. I was lucky to be standing here with him, let alone, to be given time to do a full shoot.</p><p>“I’m good at what I do. I don’t need a whole lotta time.”</p><p>In a moment of weakness, I let my eyes trail down, to where his sweat pants hugged the sharp angles of his hips, to the slit of pale skin that peeked out beneath his black ACDC shirt, before coming back up, to find that his expression hadn’t changed. He was watching me. Studying me.  </p><p>“Cocky. Okay. I can work with that. I’m Richie, by the way.” He extended the hand, cigarette perched between his fore and middle fingers, apparently oblivious to my lack of free hands. “Or Dick. Or Daddy. But…you have to earn that one.” He brought the cigarette back to his lips when he seemed to catch the drift that I couldn’t reciprocate.</p><p>Richie Tozier was known for three things. Cheekbones you could perch your tripod on, a mouth that could run laps around Usain Bolt, and…well, sleeping with his photographers. If I had a dollar for each of the tabloids I’d picked up in the grocery store chronicling the latest up-and-coming photographer that Richie Tozier had bedded…well, I wouldn’t need to work with Richie Tozier. But alas, I was here. Here, with probably the most attractive specimen of a man I’d ever laid eyes on, trying not to think about the fact that he probably already intended to…<em>shit. Focus, Eddie. Focus. </em></p><p>“Eddie,” I responded, voice tight, but Richie had already looked away.</p><p>“I know,” he said simply. “Edward Kaspbrak, age 30, born in Bangor, Maine to Sonia Kaspbrak and…I’m sorry I couldn’t find your father’s name. Graduated from the School of Visual Arts in 2013 with a degree in photography, focusing on conceptual portraiture. You’ve appeared in…<em>TIME</em>,<em>The Photographic Journal</em>, and…um. Oh, right, the <em>Berliner Zeitung </em>did a piece on you. It was in German though, so I couldn’t read it<em>. Ich spreche das nicht. </em>Am I right?”</p><p>“It…wasn’t the <em>Photographic Journal</em>actually. It was <em>Aesthetica,” </em>I replied, shifting the bags on my hip, knowing full well that my cheeks had turned something resembling the wine that I suddenly wished I hadn’t had last night. God knows, I clearly didn’t need to add to my headache today.</p><p>“Ah. I wouldn’t correct people on that if I were you,” he said and winked. “Well, anyway. I believe you have some prepping to do.”</p><p><em>He’s showing off. Trying to intimidate me, get the upper hand. Holy fuck. It’s fucking working. God, I thought we were in this together, man. </em>My thoughts whirred as I pushed into the building without another word, just a tight smile in his general direction.</p><p>My studio was on the third floor – two, dank, colorless rooms with little natural light, stuffed almost to the brim with all of the materials I could (uncomfortably) afford to lose in a fire. I dumped my camera and laptop bags on the small table by the door that served as a kind of desk, beside scraps of multi-colored satin draperies that had been there for god knows how long. Okay, so I hadn’t cleaned in…ages. And yes, one would think, that with the biggest photoshoot of my life approaching I might, well, at least tidy up. But my mind had been on other things. Like poses and <em>concepts.</em>Richie Fucking Tozier in <em>my </em>studio.<em>Okay, get a grip, Edward. </em></p><p>Tucking a pen between my lips, I tugged my sketchbook from my bag and walked into the next room. The actual studio. Now this room…this room was what it was all about. It was my happy place. It could have been better sure, but I kept it relatively clear with one wall housing my backdrop and a few scant props, an old leather chair I’d bought from a thrift store specifically for this occasion.</p><p>With shaking fingers, I grabbed the stool from the corner, placing it readily in front of my set and flipping open my sketchbook. I’d been planning this shoot for what felt like ages. Not with <em>Richie,</em>per se, but I couldn’t have hoped for a better model for the project. The first sketch I flipped open to was a figure, outlined against a white backdrop, back arched, just so, hand in the back pocket of his jeans. After I’d found Richie, I’d gone back in, added the disheveled black curls, the glasses hanging at the tip of his nose. Now I extenuated the shadows, visualized my lighting before I set anything up.</p><p>I was just getting my studio lights in place when a knock on the door broke my concentration. “Fuck,” I muttered, walking to the door, my eyes widening as I saw not only Richie, but five individuals, all in various outfits, staring with impatient eyes back at me. “Um. Hi?”</p><p>“This is makeup. Makeup this is Edward Kaspbrak. Or <em>Eddie.” </em>Richie winked at me, as if that were some kind of inside joke we’d established. Without further ado, Richie guided his makeup team into my office, all five looking around the small space with disdain, whispering to each other. </p><p>“What in God’s—”</p><p>“I simply don’t know how we’ll work in here.”</p><p>“Are the lights on?” one of the women turned to me, her perfectly drawn on eyebrows arched in such a way that a less keen eye might have missed the condescension. I didn’t miss it.</p><p>“Yes. The lighting’s a bit better in the studio, though. If you just, uh—Want to follow me.” I pushed past a man in a hot pink mesh tank top, leaning against the door frame who simply looked at me as if I were in way over my head. Which…very well may have been the case. “Okay. Um. You guys can set up…in that corner? Sorry…I didn’t realize there would be a whole makeup team coming?”</p><p>“Honey. You booked Richie Tozier what did you expect?” the guy in the hot pink mesh snapped at me as the team made fast work of setting up a makeshift station in the corner. I let out a shaky breath, pushing two trembling hands through my hair, trying to focus on the feeling, trying not to fucking panic. <em>It’s okay. It’s just a shoot. You’ve done a million—” </em></p><p>A hand landed firmly on my shoulder, and I practically gave myself whiplash looking up to see Richie standing over me, chocolatey eyes boring into mine. “Hey. Don’t psych yourself out,” he said and winked. “I promise I don’t bite. Unless you ask me to.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. make me look pretty</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i have not edited this! i will later.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Richie’s makeup team moved with a grace and precision I'd never previously experienced. They asked me questions, looked at my sketches (which had nothing to do with make up) and by the end of it all - an hour and a half total - Richie looked...like Richie. </p><p>The beauty of that was that he looked like <em>Richie</em>. The Richie I'd seen a hundred times in magazines. With perfectly wind swept curls pushed haphazardly from his face, chin defined in a way that made my insides plummet. </p><p>He was perfect. </p><p>“So what do you want me to wear?” Richie’s voice cut through my thoughts, and I realized I’d been staring, yet again, at the definition of his hipbones, the soft place where his stomach connected to his pelvis, the gentle sweep of skin there was intoxicating. It wasn’t even so much sexual (even though, it definitely was) as it was a kind of morbid curiosity. My fingers itched to grab my camera, find all of the perfect angles to capture him. </p><p>“Oh. Right,” I muttered, bringing my eyes back to his. I shook myself, clearing my head. “So, as I’m sure your manager told you, this shoot is meant to be as natural as possible. No fancy costumes or uncomfortable angles. In fact...if ever you feel uncomfortable, I want you to tell me.” </p><p>“Wow. Quite the gentleman,” Richie said, the corner of his lips twisting up yet again.</p><hr/><p>Half an hour into the shoot, and I was intoxicated. There was a certain feeling that seeped into my bones any time I got started on a shoot. A nervousness that gradually melted into a contented confidence. I was a <em>good </em>fucking photographer. I knew that. I didn’t need anyone to tell me.</p><p>But something about this shoot. About the way Richie let himself hug the chair, let his eyes stare, deadened into the camera. He knew what he was doing too. He was the best model I’d ever worked with and that only made the feeling ten times stronger.</p><p>“Okay, just, tilt your head two centimeters to the left. I want to really get your jawline.”</p><p>One of the makeup artists, all of whom were seated in the corner, chatting endlessly, popped their gum, followed by a barking laugh. I sighed, set my camera down and walking to Richie. “No, no. This way,” I said, kneeling down on the ground in front of him. He was draped across the chair, one leg thrown over the armrest, the other bent under himself. He gave me a slow smile.</p><p>“I can tell them to leave, you know,” he said, glancing at the crowd.</p><p>I pressed my fingers to his jaw, tilting his head at just the right angle for shadowing. His skin was soft, a little stubbly beneath my fingertips. “No. It’s fine.”</p><p>“Seriously. They’re bothering you. I can tell.”</p><p>I paused, considering. Finish the shoot alone, just the two of us. I would definitely be able to focus better. I always worked better in silence. I looked over my shoulder at them, before turning back. Richie was staring at me, something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Like he was sizing me up – the way you’d look at a fucking turkey in the market. This guy certainly wasn’t subtle, but then, I’d never heard anything to make me think he would be.</p><p>Before I could open my mouth to answer, his hand was right there, thumbing the top button of my shirt, until he popped it out. And just like that, my head was empty. Fucking empty. Because…what the hell is supposed to be in there when the most well-known male model on the East Coast was looking at me like Thanksgiving Dinner while his rag-tag team of make up artists was standing six feet away, probably snickering about how I would be the <em>next one. </em>The next poor sap of a photographer that Richie Tozier took home.</p><p><em>So this is how he does it. </em>A simple offer. <em>I’ll tell them to leave… </em>and then he’d have me trapped like a fish in a barrel. He’d probably start by making some stupid joke, some one-liner about being my muse. Then offer to take off his clothes, slowly. Just one item at a time. <em>How about a couple just for you? </em>And then…</p><p>Oh fuck.</p><p>No.</p><p>No. I am a professional. And this was not about sex. This was about the biggest photography project of my fucking life. And I wasn’t going to let this manipulative (<em>and sexy) </em>bastard ruin my reputation.</p><p>“No,” I said, a harsh edge to my voice. I narrowed my eyes and stood up, Richie’s hand falling from my chest. “Choose two of them to stay. The rest can go. You’re going to need a freshener on your face soon anyway.” I spun around, a shaky breath escaping my lips as I went to fiddle with my camera.</p><p>Behind me, Richie snapped, “Fiona, Lionel. You two stay, everyone else can head home.”</p><hr/><p>When I say that my apartment in Brooklyn was a shoe box, I am clearly exaggerating. But not by much. In all honesty, I don’t think that my landlord should have been able to legally call my apartment an apartment at all. It had one window, overlooking an alleyway, a kitchenette with a microwave and a hotplate, a futon I used as my bed and a small closet that served as a bathroom, though without a door. If I’d even wanted to bring anyone home at any point, it likely would have been ill-advised.</p><p>Besides, I had little time for the niceties of single life.</p><p>Slamming the door behind myself, I locked each of the five bolts on the door, before laying my bags on the table that served as my kitchen counter. I grabbed the bottle of wine from the fridge and popped open the cork. Something to take the edge off. God knows, I needed it.</p><p>The first sip hit my lips with a bitter brightness, and I closed my eyes.</p><p>So I’d done it. I finished a photoshoot, in full, with <em>the </em>Richard Tozier, and I had a camera full of photos in evidence. Without warning, a weak chuckle bubbled out of my throat and I pressed a shaking hand to my forehead. “Holy shit. Holy <em>fucking </em>shit.”</p><p>I slid down to the floor and grabbed my bag from above me, tugging out my camera and laptop. Gradually, the photos from the last four hours popped onto the screen. Richie bent over the back of the chair. Richie with his tshirt grasped between his teeth. Richie staring at the camera with such intensity I felt it in my bones. Richie. Richie. <em>Richie. </em></p><p>I flipped through the pictures, sipping my wine.</p><p>I didn’t get up from the floor for the next five hours, except to refill my glass, letting myself fall into the well-worked process of photo editing. There wasn’t much I had to do. Richie was gorgeous. The photos were gorgeous.</p><p>There was one…Richie curled up in the chair, his knees pulled in to his chest, a grin on his lips as he rolled his eyes at the camera.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Cmon, Richie. You look so fucking serious in all of these photos,” I yelled, snapping another. “Lighten up.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Richie scrunched up his features, stretching his arms over his head and plopping down in the chair. “God. I need a break. I’ve never done a shoot this long.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Sorry. I’m just thorough.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Oh I bet you are.” Richie chuckled at his own joke, pulling his knees up like a little kid in the fetal position, hugging his knees.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I walked closer, kneeling a few feet in front of him. “Is that what it takes? You need to make sex jokes to give me what I want here?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He stared at me, eyes wide, as if I’d just offended him. That, or cracked some kind of code. </em>
</p><p><em>“Maybe. After all…this has been the </em>longest, hardest, <em>shoot I’ve ever done.” </em></p><p>
  <em>I stared at him for a moment and then rolled my eyes. “God. How old are you?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He snorted, throwing his head back, and rubbing at his eyes as he cackled, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I took the shot. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>I stared at the photo for a moment before dragging it onto my desktop, out of the larger batch.</p><p>It was nearly two o’clock in the morning before I was satisfied with the photos. I’d finished off the last of the bottle an hour ago, and now was just running off fumes, ready for this to be over. Ready to hand it over to Richie’s manager and be done with it.</p><p>After prepping the email, my finger hovered over the send button, and pressed it with a flourish.</p><p>“Done. Good bye, Richie Tozier.”</p><p>I pressed my palms against the floor, wincing as I stood, my back aching slightly. I stretched, airing out my joints and was just about to head into the bathroom when my phone rang. An unknown number appeared on the screen.</p><p>“Hello?” I answered. Spam call, surely. Who else would call at 2 o’clock in the fucking morning. “Look if this is that stupid insurance place again, I already told—”</p><p>“I hate them.”</p><p>“What? Who—”</p><p>“The photos. They’re not at all what I wanted.”</p><p>“R-Richie?!” I paused, one hand braced against the kitchen table, the other holding my phone to my ear.</p><p>“Yeah. Obviously.”</p><p>“How did you get my number?”</p><p>“My manager. You’re really missing the point here. I’m not happy with the pictures. They suck and I won’t have them published.”</p><p>“What the fuck? They’re great fucking photos. I—you look fantastic in them. I spent hours editing them and—”</p><p>“Look. I’m not happy with them. My manager told me that you could…well, that you could make me look good.”</p><p>“You<em>do </em>look good.”</p><p>“I know I look good. You made me look…well, bad. I wanted natural. You gave me a stark white background and unnatural poses.”  </p><p>“Well, now you’re just being offensive,” I scoffed.</p><p>“Tomorrow. My apartment, three o’clock. You’re going to retake the photos. Or you don’t get your shoot. Because I won’t allow these to be published. I’ll text you the address.”</p><p>He hung up.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>all my love friends &lt;3 the next chapter will be the good one!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. just you and me baby</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>agh okay &lt;3 I loved writing this. no shame.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Richie’s apartment was on the outer border of Soho where it turned into Greenwich Village – a building that, by looking at the outside, you would never guess housed any number of models, icons, and wealthier dreamers. But that’s how so many of the apartments were in this part of the city, a secret wealth of talent and beauty, hidden in the plain-looking walls.</p><p>Tracing my finger along the yellowed tabs indicating apartment occupants, I stabbed aggravatedly at the one that read “Tozier.” Without any kind of verbal response, the door buzzed open and I headed in. Tenth floor, he’d said. No elevator, he’d said. <em>Wonderful.</em></p><p>Once inside, I lugged my bags (camera, check, laptop, check, shoot outfits, check) up the stairs (<em>round and round and roud)</em>, to find Richie sitting on the top of the stairs at the tenth floor. He looked up from where he was picking at his fingernails as he heard my footsteps approaching. His glasses were slightly askew, sitting on the bridge of his nose. He was in an outfit similar to the day before, sweatpants, over sized tshirt. As always, he looked good.</p><p>“Hey there, Eds,” he said, lifting a single finger to poke his glasses back up into place. Haphazard dark curls fell down into his eyes and he shook them away with a subtle movement of his head.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I said ‘hey,’” he replied, frowning at me.</p><p>“No…what did you call me?”</p><p>“Oh. Eds. Cute, right?”</p><p>I scoffed, and walked up the few remaining stairs, shoving past him to stand on the landing. “Let’s not pretend this is a friendly visit, yeah? Besides, I don’t do nicknames.”</p><p>“Damn. Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed, didn’t they?” He stood up, heading for the iron door straight ahead of us. He opened it to reveal probably the most gorgeous space I’d ever seen. Hardwood floors spread out before us, to an open living room, floor-to-ceiling windows that spanned the length of the apartment. Sunlight gleamed in, casting oblong shadows against the interior. A full kitchen off of the main room, followed by what I could only assume was Richie’s…bachelor suite.</p><p>“And isn’t Eddie a nickname?” he muttered, locking the door behind us, but I wasn’t paying any attention. I went to the couch, supple leather and a shag rug extending across the floor, everything set at angles to accentuate the space. It was a kind of perfect organization I never would have expected from someone like Richie Tozier. “I mean, your name is <em>Edward, </em>right? Unless your parents made the unfortunate decision to name you Eddie. Which…I mean, I guess there are worse things. Dick, for instance. Or Apple. Or Dick Apple.”</p><p>I dropped my bags on the floor and let my eyes take in the opportunities. I could have him lay out on the floor, pose against the couch or the windows for silhouette shots. I could have him in the kitchen, the—</p><p>“Eds?”</p><p>I spun around, eyes wide, watching him as he clearly watched me.</p><p>“You good?”</p><p>“Yeah, I—” I pushed a hand through my hair and turned back around. He was right. This was a better setting. This space had potential. I didn’t even <em>want </em>to think what an apartment like this cost in the city. “I’m just thinking…”</p><p>He walked to the kitchen, a minibar set up on the counter, and grabbed two glasses. “What’s your poison?”</p><p>“Whiskey sour would be nice actually.”</p><p>His nimble fingers made quick work over the glasses. “I hope you didn’t think I was trying to offend you last night.”</p><p><em>I know I look good. You made me look…well, bad. I wanted natural. You gave me a stark white background and unnatural poses. </em>“Of course not, why on Earth would I think that?”</p><p>He brought a glass over to me, sipping at his own whiskey neat, a perfect, dark eyebrow arched. “I know I’m pretty, but I’m not stupid. And I’m the king of sarcasm. So you can’t pull shit over on me, Kaspbrak. I’m being serious. I didn’t mean anything against <em>you </em>per se. It was the shoot. It wasn’t what I wanted. I guess I should have figured that out earlier. But I…I thought it might work out.”</p><p>I paused, watching the light yellow liquid swirl around in my glass. I took a sip. “Sure.”</p><p>“Besides…part of it, is the make up team, and the…the whole set up. I figured, here we could just…<em>be.” </em></p><p>“Poetic.” I narrowed my eyes at him. After he’d called the night before, my head had swirled with all number of possibilities. He was mad I turned him down, and now he was hanging my career over my head. He was trying to get a second pass at me, get me into his apartment where he could corner me into sleeping with him (couldn’t possibly have a black mark on is record, right?). Or…well, maybe I just had fucked it up.</p><p>“Think whatever you want. I want this shoot to be perfect. I don’t settle for imperfect. Period. So you can take the chance I’m giving you now, or you can go and give it up. That’s up to you.”</p><p>“So is this what you do?” I snapped, not even realizing that I was going to say it until I did. “Someone doesn’t want to sleep with you, so you force their hand, threaten their career?”</p><p>Richie’s eyes widened with genuine shock, and for a moment he didn’t make a sound, until a light, almost breathy laugh escaped his lips. “Seriously? You think this is about me wanting to sleep with you? About…<em>me,</em>Richie Tozier, wanting to sleep with <em>you</em>?”</p><p> My cheeks colored so quickly, I could feel the heat rushing to my face. I swallowed two gulps of my drink without pause and avoided his eyes.</p><p>“Sure. Yeah. I think it was pretty fucking obvious I threw that option out there. I don’t find much point in being subtle,” he said. Now he sounded offended. “But you also made it pretty clear that you didn’t want to do that. And that’s fine. Trust me, Eddie, I don’t need to <em>threaten people’s careers </em>to get them to sleep with me. In fact, most people in your shoes would jump at the chance I gave you yesterday. But I don’t ask more than once. So if that’s what you think this is, you can gladly fuck off.”</p><p>Gradually, my gaze drifted back to his, only to find his eyes boring into my own with an angry intensity. “Okay,” I said, and gulped at my drink again, voice shaking. “Well, uh. Now that’s settled, why don’t you get dressed?”</p><p> “Good.” He punctuated by setting his glass down on a side table and I did the same, grabbing my clothes bag from the floor. “No, no. I have my own clothes,” he said and walked back to what I assumed was his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind himself.</p><p>Watching the closed door for just a moment, I turned then to get my equipment out, making quick work of setting up my tripod and the various lighting apparati. The lighting coming in through the window was actually quite nice, though, and I had always been more inclined to use natural lighting where available. When Richie walked out, he was clad in a dark-printed Hawaiian shirt, unbuttoned to show his bare chest, paired with black boxer shorts. Surprisingly enough…it looked great. It looked like something he was comfortable in, that he felt <em>good </em>in. Which was the goal.</p><p>He grabbed his glass once again and finished off his drink.</p><p>“Okay,” I said, and took a deep breath, glancing at him. Something in his eyes told me he was still upset about my earlier comments. Not good. “Look…Richie, I’m sorry…for assuming that <em>that’s </em>what you wanted. I just…I was worried, okay?”</p><p>He shrugged, plopping down on the floor in front of the couch, one knee pulled to his chest. “It’s fine. Comes with the territory. There’s a lot of rumors that float around about me. I’m used to it.”</p><p>“Alright…well, let’s get started then. We’ll do some warm-up shots. Get a feel for the space and see where we go from there.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>Before I knew it, the sun was going down, leaving us in a weak twilight – Richie sat with his back against the windows, head tilted back against the glass, chin pointed to the side.</p><p>These photos felt good. They felt better than the previous shoot had. Over the course of the last hour, I had gotten hundreds, possibly even thousands of shots, through two outfit changes, of Richie all over the apartment. I felt like I could draw each angle and curve of his body from memory, like I was getting to know him, in a way I’d never felt with any other model. Maybe it was being alone, the solace and beauty of quietly urging him to do this or that, molding his body to my vision.</p><p>I knelt down in front of him, fixing his shirt collar, the way the shirt fell open over his chest. In an experiment, I tugged one sleeve over his shoulder, letting it hang off of him. I glance back up, and we locked gazes. I didn’t realize how close I’d gotten, just barely able to hear the sound of his breath coming past his lips. I lifted a hand, pushing his jaw up and to the side, never losing his gaze.</p><p>“There, perfect,” I muttered, unintentionally letting my fingers linger there on his skin just a moment, before pulling away, grabbing my camera.</p><p>“Drink break,” he said, standing without warning, my camera still pressed to my face.</p><p>“Fuck, Richie! That was a really good pose.”</p><p>“And I can do it again in ten minutes,” he said, sitting down at the bar. This was the fourth drink break. The clock on the stove said it was nearing eight o’clock, which meant, in New York summers, I would be losing my daylight any minute now.</p><p>Even so, I went to the bar and took my seat next to Richie, setting my camera down on the surface. I took the refill that he handed me and sipped at it gratefully. “I think the photos are coming out well,” I said, starting to flip through the memory card on my camera.</p><p>He leaned over my shoulder, glancing at the photos. “Lemme see.”</p><p>I turned the camera so he could see. His breath ghosted the side of my neck where he was leaning, and my skin broke into goosebumps.</p><p>“They’re good. You’re a good photographer,” he said after I’d scrolled through a few. He sat back in his chair. “I have one other idea. And, I know what you’re going to think. But I have a nice ass bedroom. We should take some shots in there,” he said. I glance over at him, only to see him staring straight ahead, cheeks slightly reddened.</p><p>“Okay,” I agreed, glancing at my drink. I did the only thing I could think to do, and finished it off in three over-sized gulps, wincing a bit. Setting my glass back down, I went to gather up my equipment, watching Richie’s back. “We’ll do a few more shots in your bedroom. And then I should have more than enough,” I told him. I saw him nod his head, sipping at his own drink.</p><p>Minutes later, Richie led me back into his room, which, as promised, was just as nice as the living area. A platform bed stood in the middle of an over-sized, exposed brick room, the same floor-to-ceiling windows on the opposing wall.</p><p>He sat down on the bed, watching patiently as I got everything set up again. I looked at him. “You’re gonna have to change,” I said, fiddling with my lens to adjust to the new lighting.</p><p>“Into what?”</p><p>“Something…more sensual. Beds are a different kind of setting,” I said easily, pulling from my portraiture classes in college. “They have a sex appeal, a sensuality that you don’t get in other spaces. It should be relaxed…but provocative. Subtly provocative.” He nodded and walked to the walk in closet, pulling the door closed behind himself. A few minutes later, he came out. He wore a grey tshirt, that clung to his chest in all of the right places, but also flowed just enough to look relaxed, and stretched tight over his hips was a pair of black briefs. It was simple. It was…everything.</p><p>“G-good. Um. Yeah. Perfect,” I said, pushing a shaky hand through my hair. He walked over, and I couldn’t help but notice the slight swing in his hips. Had he always done that? “Why don’t you just get on the bed, back against the wall?”  </p><p>He did exactly that. “You okay there, Eds?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at me. He didn’t look phased. Of course he didn’t. He was a model. Exposing skin was nothing to him. And it shouldn’t have been anything to me. Photographers needed to deal with this kind of thing and not be weird about it.</p><p>
  <em>Don’t fucking be weird about it, Eddie. </em>
</p><p>I replied, “Yeah, all good,” and started to take a couple of preliminary shots. I had him lay down on his stomach, and his side, kneeling on the edge of the mattress. His hair started to look tusseled from the rolling around, and I couldn’t deny it was driving me absolutely mad. He had sex hair. For fuck’s sake. I was in Richie Tozier’s apartment, with a half-naked Richie Tozier, in his bedroom. And he had sex hair.</p><p>“Grab your shirt,” I said, pulling the camera away from my face. “Yeah, just like that. Tug it up a little bit. Yeah—stop. Perfect,” I said, before looking back through the view. I swallowed thickly, and took a few from different positions, getting into the flow. “Go ahead and take the shirt off,” I said, not really intending to say it until the words left my lips.</p><p>I pulled the camera away, watched him. Part of me expected him to tell me to fuck off, but he just grabbed the hem of his shirt and tugged it over his head, tossing it to the side of the bed. “Good, yeah. Perfect,” I said, voice cracking just slightly on the words. I moved closer, pressed a hand against his chest. He stared at me. “Sit back. On your knees,” I said.</p><p>“I think I need another drink break,” he said, watching me.</p><p>I shook my head. “No. We’re gonna finish this now,” I said. I was surprised when he didn’t fight me, just sat back. I took a few more shots, moving to kneel on the bed in front of him, get some close-ups of his face, his neck, the gentle curve of his collar bones.</p><p>“Lay down,” I said, holding the camera off to the side, a rough edge to my voice. “Against the pillows. I want some shots like that.”</p><p>He did hesitate then, but listened, shifting forward to get his legs in front of him before lying back on the mattress, propped up on his elbows.</p><p>It was then that I noticed he was hard, and in the same moment I realized that I was too. Nothing about that was shocking, but realizing it did bring an urgency to the feeling that hadn’t been there before. I crawled forward, getting on top of him. I set my camera off to the side, grabbed his wrists, placing them above his head. . I heard his breath catch in his throat, and I stared down at him, taking my hand and moving his head to the side. “There. Like this. Close your eyes.”</p><p>He did and I grabbed my camera again, snapping a couple of him, laid out below me. In a couple of the shots, you could see my knees bracketing his sides, his bare skin spread out, smooth and pale. I carefully set my camera on the bedside table and leaned down over him. My lips ghosted over the side of his neck, nose pressed just there at the junction of his jaw. He shivered beneath me. “Fuck, Eddie—”</p><p>“Shut up,” I muttered, and grabbed his wrists, pressing them down more firmly into the pillows. I kissed his neck with a hunger I hadn’t felt in years, letting out some kind of guttural noise I would find time to be ashamed of later. At that moment, all I wanted was Richie. All I could think about, was <em>Richie. </em>Image after image, lean and gorgeous, posed just for me. He was mine. At that moment, he was mine.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>did you like it??? please tell me your thoughts. i'm having so much fun w this fic...</p><p>i was going to continue this but the next chapter is going to be the real NSFW shit. and i wanted to really have fun w it *wiggles eyebrows suggestively*</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. an intimate study</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>me: god i love writing smut, this is gonna be fun </p><p>me: *starts writing smut*</p><p>me: oh no, this is awful. i shouldn't be allowed to write ever again. </p><p>ps if you don't like top!eddie...what are you doing here?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As an artist, I aim to create intimacy with the world around me.</p><p>As a photographer, my goal is to study the human form.</p><p>When these two things come together, I’m able to create my best work. It can also be incredibly fucking dangerous. Because, it’s when I’m an artist and a photographer, a visionary and a scholar, that I find myself willing to take risks, to become overly involved in my work. It’s when I find myself in situations like this one.</p><p>Richie’s lips were chapped, lightly bitten, rough edges of skin. Not what you’d expect from a model. His jaw was covered in a light layer of stubble – probably two days too long unshaven. His eyes – god, his eyes. Impossibly deep, irises that melted into the pupils that gave him an undeniable, if not wholly unbelievable, innocence. But it was the look in them, the curiosity, and the desire that was really interesting.</p><p>I sat up, knees bracketing his chest. I could still feel him, hard, straining beneath me. But I was ignoring that. I tugged my own shirt over my head, tossed it on the ground, and looked at him, really <em>looked</em>. My fingers traced lazy patterns over his skin, up to his collarbones, dragging myself down over top of him.</p><p>“I would tell you how gorgeous you are, but god forbid I inflate your ego any more than it already is,” I said, smiling at him as I caught his lips in a kiss. He kissed back, hands shooting into my hair like an over eager teenager.</p><p>I wanted him. I had wanted him ever since I knew I was getting this job. And ultimately, I knew that it was only a matter of time until this happened. Ultimately, I guess I knew on some level that telling him off, denying him, it was just a game. And this…this was the fucking winner’s circle. His lips, warm against my own, my fingers curled up in his pillow beside his head.</p><p>“It’s okay,” he breathed, and I reached down, pulling the glasses from his face, carefully folding them on the bedside table. “You can tell me. I swear I won’t let it go to my head.”</p><p>“Somehow I doubt that,” I replied, and chuckled.</p><p>“Come on, I’m a model. I literally survive and thrive off compliments and attention.”</p><p>“Fine.” I let my own fingers go to his hair, twisting in the dark curls. I pecked his lips again, before shifting my body down. “Then…I guess I should tell you that you’ve been fucking with my head all day.” I trailed down his chest, peppering kisses along his sternum, to his hipbones.</p><p>“Thank god. That’s exactly, what I was aiming—” He gasped, craning his neck forward as I slipped his underwear down.</p><p>I wrapped my fingers around his cock with a level of confidence I didn’t know I was even capable of. <em>Me</em>. Eddie Kaspbrak – virgin until twenty-two, lifelong momma’s boy, and certified Loser with a capital “L” – wrapped my fingers around Richie Tozier’s dick like it was all they’d ever been intended for. And right then, well, fuck it. It might as well have been.</p><p>I glanced up, a part of me expecting to suddenly be hit by a wave of anxiety about the whole thing, especially when I met Richie’s eyes and realized exactly what was going on. But I wasn’t. In fact, it was an eerie kind of assuredness that flowed through me. Like of course this was happening. I couldn’t imagine a scenario where this didn’t end up happening eventually. “You know, if you’re not super loud during sex, I’m going to be seriously disappointed,” I said, my lips quirking up in a teasing smile. Never in my life had I said anything like that. But here I was.</p><p>“Oh, trust me, Eds. You don’t have to worry.” He let out a chuckle, fading into a breathy moan as I bent my head, getting my lips around him. He tasted…warm. And vaguely salty, but as I closed my eyes, taking him down, all I could really do was <em>listen. </em>Listen to the cacophony of rough whimpers that escaped his throat above me. “Goddammit, Eddie,” I heard him, his fingers going for my hair like it was the one thing tethering him here.</p><p>I pulled off, dragging my tongue along the underside of his cock before wrapping my fingers around the base once again. I had to see, I realized. Listening, tasting – it wasn’t enough. I was a photographer for fuck’s sake. “Let me fuck you,” I demanded (fucking <em>demanded? </em>Who was this guy and what did he do with Eddie Kaspbrak?).</p><p>Beneath me, Richie just nodded, bending his knees. He pointed vaguely over to his bedside table, eyes never leaving mine. “It’s about fucking time. For someone who <em>didn’t want this, </em>you’re kinda bossy,” he muttered, but his voice lacked that usual callous confidence it normally had. I was taking him apart, piece by piece, and by god if I wasn’t going to finish the fucking job. I watched him a moment longer, his tongue tracing out over his bottom lip, and I leaned over him, catching his tongue between my teeth before pushing him back against the pillows in a deep, soul-sucking kiss. He only moaned into it – putty at my fingertips.</p><p>Finally, I dug myself out of the kiss long enough to fumble around with the bedside table, finding the bottle of lube and stack of condoms there. I grabbed what I needed and dumped the supplies on the bed beside him, before working my own jeans off, a certain eager restlessness coming over my actions then. Frenzied.</p><p>I barely got my jeans down to my knees before I grabbed the condom, thrusting it at him while I got the lube. “Open it,” I said and he obliged, something like a weak smirk playing on his lips. I lathered two fingers up and pressed him back, finding his hole easily. I pushed them in without warning and he groaned.</p><p>“Don’t – don’t fucking bother with all that,” he said, looking up, meeting my eyes, voice strained. “I mean, it’s good, don’t get me wrong,” he said, emphasizing when the wrapped his legs around my waist. “But I need – fuck. Come on, Eddie.” He pushed me back, my fingers slipping out of him with the motion. He huffed, his hand working over my cock. It took me a moment to realize he was rolling the condom on.</p><p>He pulled me down into a kiss, rough and sudden, and it was only then that I paused, his teeth digging into my bottom lip with urgency. My hands gripped his sides, probably bruising the pale skin there. “I—” I managed, but he cut me off with a sharp shake of his head.</p><p>“Please,” he said, meeting my eyes.</p><p>Another beat, and I had him pushed back down against the bed, lining myself up. I took him without a second thought, my fingers curling into the white sheets at his head, grounding myself as I worked my hips into a smooth rhythm. His thighs wound around my waist, and I could feel the tight cords of his muscles around me. Fuck, it was good. It was so good.</p><p>I watched his face, every tick and scrunch of his features, the way his lips formed O’s around his moans. “Fucking gorgeous,” I breathed, over and over like a mantra. Because he was. God. He was beautiful.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>“What’s the idea behind the project?”</p><p>It wasn’t what I was expecting. The first words either of us had spoken. He grasped a cigarette between his fingers, just like he had that first day, his hair pushed up in angles around his face, hallowed by the waning daylight. He’d walked onto the balcony probably ten minutes ago, hopping up from the bed like…well, like he’d accomplished what he’d came for.</p><p>He was dressed in the boxer shorts from earlier, the pale skin of his back facing me as he looked out over the skyline. If I’d thought he had sex hair before, that was nothing compared to now. Something akin to pride welled up in my belly.</p><p>“I-I’m sorry, what?”</p><p>“The photo project,” he said, glancing over his shoulder then. He met my eyes, his lank form turning then to lean against the barrier. “I don’t like to ask a lot of questions before hand. Makes me nervous if I’m trying to fit into some kind of image, you know?” He flicked the end of the cigarette over the side.</p><p>I walked over, features working into a slight frown. I leaned against the barrier beside him, suddenly feeling very exposed in my tshirt and boxers. “It…um. Well, it was supposed to be a portraiture study. A close look at one person- uh, <em>you. </em>An intimate look, if you will.”</p><p>He nodded. “That’s cool. I hope you can get it published,” he said easily. It had a strange kind of finality to it, the way he said it, and I glanced over at him.</p><p>“Yeah…I hope so too.”</p><p>“I mean, I won’t lie. A lot of that is selfish,” he said with a hollow laugh. “I haven’t had a successful shoot in…well, too long.”</p><p>“Seriously? I feel like I see you everywhere.”</p><p>He shrugged. “Old stuff, probably. But…it’s only a matter of time before the old stuff goes out of commission. They’ll find a new eighteen year old to be their star child.” He put his cigarette out against the wall, and dropped it onto the ground, before going back to the door. “You comin’?”</p><p>        </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>&lt;3</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>kudos and comments are love &lt;3 spread the love if you liked it so i have the motivation to keep writing</p></blockquote></div></div>
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